Fat Lad’s Turf

‘It wouldn’t be a Morley ride without dog shit, nettles and mud…’ an anonymous local rider.

It starts with tarmac, it has to round here. Down the hill wind creating streaming eyes. Sharp left round the gate onto dirt. Broken glass, under-age outdoor drinking kids anti motorbike gates and onto the flowing stuff that leads to Lynne’s drop. Rooty, steep and fast.

This is our town. These are our trails. These are our tales.

Down the old railway line paralleling the Leeds-Wakefield line. Wide crush and run under tyre rusting palisade fence to the left. Overgrown undergrowth to the right. Bare forearms bear the self harm of thorn and bramble. Over the bridge and past the burnt out historic hall.

This is our town. These are our trails. These are our tales.

More black top. Too much. Lycra and baggy warriors bully our way across two lanes to stake the roundabout. Our waved thanks to the motorised caged is half felt and ungenuine. Too many near misses. It’s them and us. Pebbles embedded in ill thought out waterlogged dirt. Upwards building character as we go crossing more train lines jumping the last three steps imagined freeride gods.

This is our town. These are our trails. These are our tales.

Under the trees only gas, gas, GAS will see you clear. Off camber big roots and a step up on an ascent. It doesn’t relent still leaning right you lean left or slide down. The roots will have you. Big tyres make it. Bigger hearts destroy it. A cut through the industrial estate only locals will know puts us into the real reason for heading out. The poorly tended crop whips at bare shins no line choices clear just speed and wind rush. It’s here now. This is it. A sharp left. Don’t fuck it up. Go, pedal harder, more roots gun for the uncommitted. A small drop off through the trees. Jump to flat. Commit. Take the fun right line. Leave the left Strava line for the dead souled. Another drop, get it right. Hand of god acceleration in the small of the back to the kicker. Front and Rear rubber reconnect simultaneously. Seamlessly. The last lip. The last lurch of stomach mid air. The landing rolls you away. The good stuff is done. We’re just rolling home now.